Against a foriegn shore

I miss your pen.

Grey clouds, slung low,

valiant strokes against a foreign shore

dragging the sea

in and in

and what’s more, your words,

my words,

a strange fleet,

all the feelings overboard,

their meaning drowned, their fate complete.

Love may be born in the present but

failure was moored in the past

scattered over these wet dunes

among the razored grass

with bare feet and damp skirts

I walked lightly

over dry leaves cluttered

with dread

and was moved to ask

what it was I did–

though

I knew for sure you’d never tell

and when I tried to buy your thoughts with words–

It didn’t go so well.

Comments

[dale]

So beautiful. This grief.

Hugs.